


Trade Up

by relic_amaranth



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bad date, F/M, Gender-neutral Reader, M/M, Other, Reader-Insert, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-10-25 13:20:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20724863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/relic_amaranth/pseuds/relic_amaranth
Summary: You always thought meeting your soulmate would be a humdrum affair, but he does what he does best and saves you.





	Trade Up

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Fluff, soulmate fic where your soulmates words are on your skin, jumps POV momentarily from Reader-focused perspective to a wider perspective _((marked like so))_, they/them pronouns for Reader
> 
> A/N: This story is interesting in that I wrote it and lost it and found it and lost it again and I just found it again so I typed it up real fast so at least I don’t have to tear my belongings apart just to know where it went. I like this one; it is pretty by-the-numbers but sometimes you just wanna grab a glass of Sam-Wilson-saving-you-from-a-terrible-date and sink into a warm bath of and-they-were-soulmates. Cheers.

You think the people who say they’ll never date again are incredibly valid. After tonight, you might become one of them.

“I know you won’t understand, but I’ll try to simply it for you…”

You understand that, with soulmates and all, some people find dating to be a waste of time. You don’t expect those people to be on a website _for_ ‘frivolous’ dating. And yet here you are, with a man who had seemed nice in emails and a brief phone conversation, but who currently cannot seem to care less about making even a decent impression.

God; you’re pretty sure someone at the table to your left is live-tweeting this, from how they’re snickering over their phone with their friends, and looking at you and your date every now and then. They’re not the only table stealing glances, but they are the most blatant about it. It’s telling that you’re pretty sure that you’re pretty sure that’s _Captain America_ sitting a couple of tables away and yet no one is talking about him or his group of equally attractive friends. Even _they_ are focused on you, especially the really cute guy on his left, which just figures, doesn’t it.

Your date is still talking and you trace the condensation on your glass of mostly-untouched water. You’ve moved past the stage of embarrassment where you want to crawl under the table and die. You’ve tried your excuses, they’ve all failed, and you’ve accepted this is your life for the evening and you’re just waiting for it to end. Hopefully _without_ much more notice.

_((Meanwhile…))_

“I've never heard someone talk _that much_,” Natasha mutters under her breath. “And I’ve sat with Tony while he was on the verge of a panic attack.”

Sam frowns and Steve’s jaw clenches even tighter. Bucky and Sharon trade long-suffering looks. “Stop it,” Bucky says when Steve’s arm tenses.

“That guy’s a dick,” Steve says, not taking his eyes from you. “I’ve gotta do _something_.”

“And embarrass them more by causing a scene?” Sharon says.

“You're not a skinny little nobody anymore,” Natasha adds. “You go over there and it’s going to be a story. Worse, it might make that asshole sympathetic. Does it look like that poor person _wants_ that sort of attention?”

Sam watches as you hunch under the attention already given and look longingly at the black screen of your phone. “I’m with Steve on this one,” Sam says.

Bucky rolls his eyes and takes a drink. “Of course you are; you’re _just like him_.”

“Look,” Natasha says. “If he gets up again I’ll go ask if they want help. Until then, you two sit your asses down. Am I clear?”

Sam and Steve both frown deeply but they nod. Natasha sits back and watches them shrewdly. Sharon nods at Bucky. “At least self-preservation seems to have kicked in.”

“For now,” Bucky says, mirroring Natasha almost exactly.

Sharon hides a smile in her glass, but a look meant to evaluate ‘the situation’ is caught by Natasha, who gives her a sharp glare as well.

“Three of them,” Bucky mutters in Russian.

“God help us,” Natasha says and downs her drink.

_((Back at the table…))_

“Everybody’s too damn focused on soulmates these days.”

You think he’s about to go off on another rant that will inevitably turn offensive, but he’s actually quiet. You’re so startled by the prospect of actual engagement that you trip over your tongue. “Not– not any more than they have been, I think. In fact–”

“I’m seeing a lot less people on the dating scene these days,” he says. “And so many people are all–” he goes into a mocking falsetto, “‘I’m waiting for my _other piece_.’ Ugh.” He takes a drink. “Or ‘pieces’ depending on whether they got the ‘harlot’s mark,’ you know?”

You haven’t heard _that_ term from anyone other than really old bigots and you actually flinch. “That’s a gross–”

“I mean, it’s like nobody knows how to have _fun_ anymore,” he says. “The whole point of having a soulmate is that someone’s always going to take you no matter what. Why doesn’t _everyone_ do that?”

From ‘harlot’s mark’ to ‘why doesn’t everyone fuck around.’ You wish you could be surprised by this shift in attitude, but he’s spent almost the whole date justifying why he’s fine and the rest of the world is wrong. Still, you have a bad feeling as to why he’s bringing this up. “Um…not everyone is cool with it, I guess,” you say cautiously.

“Doesn’t matter.” He knocks back his drink and flags for yet another. “If they’re your soulmate they’re stuck with you. That’s fate.”

That’s _not_ true and as sorry as you feel for his soulmate, you hope he learns that lesson the hard way (if only for their sake). But then he smirks at you. “It’s good that some of us _do_ know how to have fun.”

The way he says that last part makes your skin crawl. “A different kind of ‘fun’ I guess,” you say, trying to sound as bored as you can. Rude, sexist, racist, so many types of phobic, obnoxious to everyone around him without even trying, and now creepy– if you had a bad date bingo card you’d have a blackout right now.

Earlier he had tried to skip out on the bill by excusing himself to the bathroom, but your waitress and the host had blocked the front and loudly instructed him as to where the restrooms were. Now you wish they’d had your back a little less. You’d take the hit to your wallet if it meant you could crawl home. But now if you get the bill would that be sending the wrong signal; would he take that for an invitation? Not that you care, you just don’t want to deal with it right now.

He keeps drinking, and you keep rebuffing his attempts to get you to do the same. You’re not sure what you’re going to do with him as he gets drunker and drunker, but it has the unintended benefit of shutting him up, which means all the onlookers slowly get bored and stop paying such close attention to your disaster date. Even the people recording this for posterity stop, and after a little while you can breathe again.

Until, when you’re reaching for a napkin, he suddenly grabs your wrist and _grips_. You try to yank it back, but he’s got a surprisingly strong hold. “Hey,” he says. “I think I’m just about ready.”

“Ready for what?” You wince. “Please let go; it hurts.”

“Sorry,” he says but he barely loosens a centimeter. “You take care of the bill, and I’ll take you to my place. It’ll be great.”

The one problem with no longer being the center of surreptitious attention is that it’s hard to find help that you can discreetly ask for. You’re about to damn all dignity and raise your voice to demand he let go, when someone bumps into your table hard enough to topple the glasses. You barely catch your water, but your date’s half-full drink goes right into his lap. He hisses and lets go of you to mop it up.

You look up at your savior, who even under normal conditions is probably one of the most beautiful men you’ve ever seen. Right now, the lights give him a very appropriate halo and your angel smiles at you. How fitting for a man who uses wings to save people.

“I’m really sorry to interrupt, but have we met before? You look awfully familiar.”

Your heart stutters. Your _words_. It could be a coincidence. It could be, but it might not be. “I– I don’t think so; I’m a hundred percent sure I’d remember a face like yours.”

His eyes go wide and his mouth drops open and shit, you’re actually _thankful_ for that asshole now. “Those are my– did I say–”

You scramble up and pull up your sleeve to show him your words. His words. He gently touches the skin and the way he smiles at you–

“Do you know this asshole?” your ‘date’ gripes.

“I do now,” you say, not looking away from the man. “He’s my soulmate.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Nope,” your soulmate says and, appropriately, doesn’t give the douchebag a single glance.

“Fuck it; this was a shit date anyway,” he says and stumbles out. He doesn’t leave anything for his half, of course, but you don’t even care anymore; he’s gone and you’re standing in front of your soulmate, who looks as happy as you feel.

He extends his hand to shake yours. “Sam Wilson.”

You introduce yourself and he repeats your name like he already loves it. “I know you’ve had a hell of a night, but uh, do you wanna go get some coffee or something?” he says.

“Your friends won’t mind?” you ask. Just to be polite, if you’re being honest; you’re ready to yank him out the door and never look back.

“No way,” he says. “Besides, I see those jerks all the time.”

“Okay. Okay.” You can’t stop smiling. Talk about an upswing. “Let me just pay the bill and–”

A wad of cash lands on the table. “The _gentleman_ was kind enough to leave enough cash to cover the bill and a generous tip,” a woman with red hair and even redder lipstick says as she sidles past. “We’ll see you later, Sam.”

“Thanks Nat,” he says and they trade a small hug. As Sam helps you with your jacket he tells you, “I’m sorry I wasn’t here sooner.” He straightens out the lapel. “We weren't sure if we’d make it better or worse. If it’s any consolation, Steve wanted to throttle the guy.”

“Well, as much as I appreciate the thought–” you hold your hand out, “–I’m glad it was you.”

Sam grins and slips his hand into yours, and you lead him out into the best night of your life.


End file.
